


Clay never gets to be President (He might as well be thankful of that)

by elanor_BleuNoir



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Calhoun is a nerd and Clay loves him, Card Games, Clayhoun, M/M, Yeah Clay never was president, but he might as well be grateful for that, no actually some people do, who cares about Henry Clay, who is Henry Clay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_BleuNoir/pseuds/elanor_BleuNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John C. Calhoun was a nerd, and Henry Clay was the party king from the West. It remained a mystery to the latter how he was utterly enthralled by the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clay never gets to be President (He might as well be thankful of that)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick clarifications--both of them were above 18 and had just graduated from high school, so no underage involved. Also I wrote it like midnight last night and didn't have a beta--apologies in advance if it doesn't read well.

Henry Clay had no idea how John Calhoun attracts him.

 

Look at the nerd— _man, he doesn’t even now how to have fun_. Clay cast a quick look at the figure in the dimly-lit corner of the room and frowned. Far away from the party crowd. Classic John. C. Calhoun style. He couldn’t understand how on earth that guy managed to curl up comfortably in an armchair and read in the middle of a party. To _read_! He was holding a book in his hands!

 

“What are you doing, Clay?” He was dragged back to the card game by a voice beside him. “Zoning out? What are you thinking—losing?”

 

“Screw you, Webster.” Clay rolled his eyes, didn’t even take a single glance at his cards, and threw a pair of kings onto the table without a blink. “Henry Clay never loses.”

 

“But Henry Clay never gets to be President.” Clay looked for the source of that snide voice and, as he had expected, found a smirk on Andrew Jackson’s face.

 

“Oh come on Jackson. If you hadn’t had that Joker last time, the game is mine to win.” Clay responded.

 

“Yup. Which is why a Joker beats everything in a game of President—to not let you win, Henry.” Jackson curled his lips into a smile, “What say you, Martin? It’s your turn, by the way.”

 

“Pass.” Van Buren grunted, “I never get better cards than Clay. Can’t sit next to him, I’d lose every single round. Want to switch seats with me, Andrew?”

 

“Ooooh, better not.” Jackson raised his eyebrows and looked at his own cards, “Dammit, I think we’ve run out of Jokers already. And Clay has only one card left—don’t tell me he’s really becoming President this time.”

 

“Hey, hey, guys. Look, let’s add some fun to this game.” Clay leaned in and projected his voice. “Having the loser drink is boring. Let’s change a rules a little bit and have the President each turn give commands to the rest. And the rest have to obey because _he is the president_. Who agrees?”

 

“Oh come on Clay, you’re just saying that because you’re winning!” Jackson protested, “No way. I strongly disagree.”

 

“I agree. Why not? It’s senior week, please. Even doing outrageous things can be fun.” Webster shrugged.

 

“You know you’re not getting outrageous commands, Daniel.” Jackson rolled his eyes.

 

“Nope, disagree. I’m losing anyways.” Van Buren said.

 

“Two out of five have disagreed! We need one more.” Jackson was already having a triumphant look on his face, “Oh hey, look who’s left, its—”

 

“I most definitely agree with this most delightful idea.”

 

Jackson’s smile froze.

 

“John Quincy—”

 

He was again interrupted.

 

“Why, you ask? Because,” John Quincy Adams slowly pushed his two remaining cards to the center. A pair of aces, shining under the lamp overhead. Aces of Hearts. “I am the President.”

 

“John Quincy Adams!” Clay claimed. “No way!”

 

“So am I giving commands right now?” Adams blinked innocently and looked at the rest of the group.

 

“Yes you are.” Jackson sighed.

 

“We’re friends, John, aren’t we? I know you’ll make this easy for me.” Clay turned to Adams, a half-sincere pleading look in his eye: he doubted if a person like John Quincy Adams could make any harmful commands.

 

“To make this game fairer, I have decided to give commands _without_ knowing who I’m giving the commands to. Fair enough?” Adams spoke.

 

“What do you mean?” Jackson asked, confused.

 

“So, basically, I’m assigning people their tasks according to their place in the _next round_ , without knowing who these people are.” Adams explained.

 

Jackson looked relieved. Well, thought Clay with what he interpreted as a little bit of pity, at least nothing personal would be designed against him. Clay would love to see Jackson be at his stupidest state if he were the President. But Adams was too nice to do so. Such a waste of chance.

 

Slowly, Adams gave his commands. Most of them were utterly harmless, such as turning around in circles for half a minute—he didn’t even mention the speed they should turn with. When it came to the last two people, Adams pondered for a moment and said, “As for whoever comes in second—the Vice President—shall be locked in the bathroom with whoever comes in last and shall not be allowed to play in the next round.”

 

“That’s not even fun!” Clay protested.

 

“Then try to be President next time, Clay.” Jackson snickered.

 

“You know what, Jackson, I want to punch you in the face.”

 

“Then come!”

 

“However, I have chosen myself to be a civilized man and refuse to resolve mundane troubles in vulgar manners. Unlike some gentlemen I know, who are quite fond of…I would say, inadvisable demeanors.”

 

“…says a so-called _gentleman_ who is currently drinking, playing cards with a loud noise, and showing sarcasm and hostility to every one of his peers? Civil, I beg your pardon, sir?”

 

Clay’s first instinct was to look at Jackson. But it wasn’t Jackson who spoke, and Jackson would know that he was joking. Clay looked around and saw where the originator of the voice: the dimly-lit corner, curled up on a comfortable armchair.

 

“Oh, look who it is! John C. Calhoun!” Jackson waved to Calhoun, “Separating himself from the crowd again. Come join us!”

 

“Thank you, but indeed I have not the purpose of doing so.”

 

“Nerd.” The word automatically jumped out of Clay’s mouth.

 

Calhoun fixed his gaze on Clay, and frowned. “Are you challenging my character, Mister Henry Clay?”

 

“Why, I am merely making a judgment on your behavior, Mister South Carolina.” Clay was remaining his usual calm, keen and sardonic self, but somehow he felt his heart beating in his chest without a rhythm. He finally managed to look up and meet Calhoun’s sharp gaze. He had to try hard to make that sincere smile stay on his face before it gets too extreme.

 

Calhoun frowned. “I don’t see the point of this game, but nevertheless feel the necessity to accept your invitation.”

 

“Stop being so boring, John, come on!” Jackson sighed loudly, “Join the crowd! I bet it’s the first time you play President? Let’s see what punishment you are getting.”

 

 _Oh, he is definitely going to be last._ Clay thought. _He hadn’t played a single time._

 

But then… _Wait._

 

What did John Quincy say? That the person who goes second will be locked in the bathroom with the person who goes last?

 

The thought of being locked in a bathroom with Calhoun was, although a bit embarrassing, very compelling to Clay. And of course, distracting. Before he knew Clay was already slower than usual at picking cards to play, and made several big mistakes in the playing process.

 

“Henry, your face looks like it’s on fire. You didn’t drink too much, did you?” After the fourth or fifth time Clay throws away large cards for no reason, Adams looked at him with concern.

 

Instinctively, Clay reached out his hands and touched his cheeks. Adams was right; he was blushing furiously. _Dammit,_ he thought, _better not let Calhoun notice this._ Either he views him as an excessive drinker or worse, the situation would not be good for him.

 

He didn’t know if Calhoun noticed, but Webster definitely did. Webster knew about Clay’s crush: he rather squeezed the truth out of his friend. Clay felt Webster prod him lightly on the ribs, and flinched, shooting his friend a warning look. Webster smiled knowingly and played on.

 

Before he knew, Jackson ran out of cards.

 

“See?” Jackson’s tone was full of pride, “I’m President again, Clay. You can’t beat me.” Then he saw the giant pile of cards Clay was holding. “Jesus, Clay, are you out of your mind this round? The card player that never loses is going to lose?”

 

Clay might have had a chance not to lose, but he gave it up the moment he saw Calhoun run out of cards. With Jackson commenting, “I can’t believe it, you’re way better than I thought!” And Van Buren good-naturedly reminding him that he would be locked in the bathroom, Clay decided that he was going to lose this round on purpose.

 

_Who the hell cares about the President anyways? He wants his Mr. South Carolina._

 

And he lost. When the crowd pushed him and Calhoun into the bathroom (with Jackson mocking how badly Clay played this round), Clay felt his heart pounding. He could no longer control his breathing or blushing anymore. His hormones were racing through him, every nerve sending him a signal of excitement, and he knew he had to control himself. But he couldn’t.

 

When the door was locked behind him, Clay thought he lost control. His words were just about to flow out of his mouth when he heard Calhoun’s quiet comment.

 

“Funny.” He said.

 

“What?” Clay turned to him. They were standing on opposite sides of the bathroom, leaning against two opposite walls.

 

“You lost the game,” Calhoun spoke quietly, “intentionally.”

 

Clay froze. “No…I di-”

 

“Is it such an honor to be locked in the bathroom with me so that you could even forsake your reputation as a good card player? Or do you fear the other commands? None of them are truly hard. I doubt that.”

 

Clay felt his cheeks burning. When he spoke, he felt a bit humiliated, both by Calhoun’s aloofness and the faint condescending arrogance in his tone. _Ah, yes, John C. Calhoun, natural Southerner, aristocrat of the new era._ Why in hell would he fall in love with this person? This Southern boy who values the perpetual beauty of the intellectual world and the South as his most precious gems? Nevertheless, he spoke.

 

“I did not lose on purpose. I was rather disturbed by your arrival.”

 

“You invited me.”

 

“That,” Clay paused, “is true.”

 

And he was being honest.

 

Calhoun chuckled. Clay thought he heard it wrong and cast Calhoun a glance. He wasn’t mistaken; the other boy was now blatantly smiling.

 

“It amuses me,” Calhoun continued to smile—Clay had never seen him smile ever, he would swear—and replied, “your attempt to hide your infatuation. Every single time.”

 

“Oh, fuck.” Clay cursed under his breath.

 

He failed to realize how small the bathroom was; Calhoun most definitely heard him.

 

“It is a perpetual wonder to me how people from the West never learn to constrain themselves from vulgarity.” Calhoun’s tone was not offended; he was still smiling. Clay’s heart was beating like it was going to explode any second now. He managed to fix his gaze on the other boy and, for the first time in forever, stared into Calhoun’s eyes. Those eyes were a dark hazel, deep and contemplating. They now carried a tint of laziness Clay couldn’t comprehend.

 

Calhoun was closer now; he was approaching. Clay was running out of air. He tried to grasp words as they fly by in his brain, and found nothing coming out of his mouth instead. Instead, his gaze shifted silently to Calhoun’s thin lips. Those lips were of nice color. He wanted to—

 

And there Calhoun was, right in front of him, leaning closer, his face not even an inch away.

 

“You thought the game was boring?”

 

Clay could do nothing but nod at this point.

 

“What say we do something…less boring about this activity? What about I, as the Vice President, command myself to—” Calhoun was almost leaning on his shoulders now; did he drink too much that he was hallucinating? His cheeks were burning, his heart was burning, he was burning to the ground. Calhoun’s breaths were on his earlobes. Right there. “— _arouse you_ , let’s say?”

 

 _Oh, screw it all._ Clay decided that he was giving up control. He didn’t even need Calhoun’s words to excite him; the alcohol plus heat plus Calhoun’s body right next to him has made him hard as stone in his jeans.

 

“You asked for it.” Clay’s voice was somewhat hoarse now; he swallowed but it didn’t help much. With great force he pushed Calhoun back onto the wall, and kissed him hard, right on his lips. Furiously. Fervently. _Fiendishly._

 

To his surprise—or maybe not—Calhoun kissed him back with the exact same passion and force. When they broke apart, it was for the lack of air.

 

“You were watching me.” Clay panted as he moved on to kiss Calhoun’s neck, unbuttoning the other one’s shirt, “You have always be watching me, haven’t you. In the corner. Everywhere.”

 

“And you me.” Calhoun’s hand slid cunningly between Clay’s legs and caressed his inner thigh lightly. Like a snake. Like the tongue a flame, setting everything it touches on fire. The hand found its goal easily, and started taunting it.

 

“Oh fuck.” Clay cursed again; he didn’t care at this moment. “Stop it, stop it, John—” He was gasping now, gasping and biting into Calhoun’s collarbones, his mind a mess attacked by hormones and insurmountable pleasure.

 

“Stop it?” Calhoun frowned, “Or do you want _more_?”

 

“I want _you_.” Clay said. He reached his hand down, fumbling with his button, but found another pair of hands there ahead of him.

 

“You do mine.” Calhoun whispered, “And try to be quiet. I don’t want them to hear, although I doubt if they will.”

 

A moment later, Clay was pressing his whole body into Calhoun’s, their silent breathings resonating in the small bathroom. He held the other boy against the wall, both of them half-undressed, equally inexperienced and equally passionate. Calhoun was biting his lips and trying not to let a sound out; in the end he gave up and opened his mouth, making small, quick moans every now and then, as tears flowed down his cheek.

 

“You want me to stop?” Clay kissed away his tears and stopped moving.

 

“No, no—keep going—please, Henry. The tears are just a reaction of my own body and it betrays me every now and then…but do continue, oh… Ah, fuck—this feels so good—dammit—”

 

“I thought you don’t curse?” Clay managed to ask in between incessant groans.

 

“Leave that alone.” Calhoun hissed and wrapped his arms around Clay harder, “Now do what you want to do.”

 

The whole thing wasn’t long. Both came rather quickly, panting and gasping, hurriedly climbing off each other. They managed to clean off the mess before Jackson opened the door.

 

“Guess what, Clay? I got to be President again! This round I’m going to make you do something crazy. You will go crazy, trust me, and you never get to be President!”

 

“I do never get to be President.” Clay shrugged. When Jackson looked at him suspiciously, he added, “But I’ve got better stuff than you, Jackson.”

 

And behind Jackson's back, he was certain that he saw Calhoun smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to Hell.


End file.
